


The Kind of Story I Am

by Neminem



Category: loving with your heart, loving with your mind
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:28:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27946808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neminem/pseuds/Neminem
Summary: Two girls. One relying on her mind. The other relying on her heart. Both normal in odd ways. Some death but very little. The kind of story you read that doesn't change you but you'll see it in everyday things. The kind of story you find amuses you subtly in strange ways. The kind of story that continues past the pages and you finding yourself wondering how it ends.The Kind of Story I Am
Relationships: Amentia/Cor





	The Kind of Story I Am

Hi, my name is Amentia. That literally means insanity in Latin. I find it fitting enough considering who I am.

Journal Entry # 21

In 1772, a fly died in the isolation of a lady’s cotton glove. He was given no funeral. His death was a devastating blow to fly kind. His name [BEAT] was Henry Roberts Packelldorf.

End of Journal Entry.

I write. Not your typical type of writings though. More… prose from the mind of a mental patient. 

Journal Entry #32

Being an oat seems truly romantic. Positively a dream. Flaky yet sensible. A true gem. I can picture it, an oat laying seductively on a red velvet sheeted canopy bed in one of those complimentary robes they provide in the suites. Perhaps his name is stitched on the collarbone location of the fabric. I don’t know, it’s your fantasy. See what you want to see. I for one am going to pleasure myself while imagining this scenario. For sure.

End of Journal Entry

My parents have decided that they still find me a relatively good kid, considering how short circuited my brain is. They don’t mind. Which is good, the more support I can get. My friends are supportive as well, though they kind of have to be, you see, my friends’ moms were my parents' friends. Yeah, this is going to be one of those stories.

Journal Entry #33

That aside, imagine a squid in a baker’s uniform. Professional yet engaging. The epitome of a daunting vision. Dazzle me, you young senior squid-baker, you. I feel as though you are alluring. Your presence overwhelms me greatly. I see your tentacles wielding a rolling pin, your red skin drenched in flour. You sexy, sexy, creature. Grab me and we can slither back to where you came, giggling the entire way.

End of Journal Entry

It’s satisfying letting your mind float away into the abis.

Journal Entry #97

Compliments to the chef.

Why not actually say a compliment? Edit: Why not actually use your damn brain to say something that is actually feasible instead of shitting out some overused cliche?  
End of Journal Entry

Don’t you just love it when books tell you what is going to happen in the end? Well congratulations, because this is going to be one of those books. This story is going to be about love and how it always manages to screw you in the end.

Cue Angst-y shitty teenage music. Just kidding, I’m not one of those teens.

Journal Entry #45 

Bloated bicycles /ˈblōdəd ˈbīsək(ə)ls/ (phrase) An expression of resentment. 

End of Journal Entry

Our story starts in Downtown New York, where you are most likely to find a dead man in your basement. Like the one featured in the beginning of our story. Hide your noses, this one’s a stinker. The dead man in question is my father and I just shot him with a gun. Red is sprayed across the kitchen counter. My grin won’t slide off my goddamn face making me look sickeningly gleeful. How could you smile after something like that? I mean, it just wasn’t right! He held his hand over the direct hit and moaned. I made no move to help him. I was in deep enough shit as it was, no need to smear the evidence on myself. He looked at me in pain and disapproval. He tried to speak but the blast was from so close and right over his chest. “Told you I was a good shot.” I said it quietly and laid down the gun softly. I was beginning to worry that I should start running. I mean, mom was going to flip out once she found out what happened. Who knows, she might even disown me. My parents were adamant about paint balling indoors. My father chuckled, “Yeah, good shot sweetheart. Guess you got all the zombies now?” I grinned, knowing I got away with it, “Yeah, well, who ever said the fun stopped once we went inside?” He looked at me and we both said, “Mom.”

Journal Entry #12

Cups of Plenty:

A game in which you steal cups from your neighbors. Edit: A game where you snatch cups from your children, causing them to besckottle their contents. Extra point if the child uses obscenities.

End of Journal Entry


End file.
